Picking Up the Pieces
by Escriba
Summary: Trip's friends mourn his death, in their particular way.


**Disclaimer:** _Star Trek Enterprise_ belongs to CBS/Paramount. I don't own even a penny.

**Author's Note:** I don't like *the abomination* and I think, like most of the fans, that it is a holo-novel, a bad holo-novel. But if we take it as canon, there is one thing that has always bothered me: the lack of mourning for Trip from the rest of the crew. Except that little scene between T'Pol and Archer, we get nothing. It's as if Trip's death didn't affect anybody. Which is very, very wrong. So this is an attempt to fix it. It doesn't improve the awful episode at all, but I've tried, at least.

Many **thanks** to **Alelou**, for beta-reading it and fixing the canon mistakes.

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* * *

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**1****. Phlox**

He finishes cleaning the biobed.

Any of his assistants could do it, but he wants to be the one to perform the heartbreaking task. There is something purifying in it, like the ceremony of the ablution in some religions.

After that, he revises his report once more. He searches for any mistake, for any error, for any little detail he left out in the first place.

He tries to focus and ignore the cries, croaks and whimpers of his pets. He tries to ignore the constant flicker of the light that Maintenance hasn't fixed. He tries to ignore the pungent smell of disinfectant.

He tries to ignore the real metallic stench it tries to conceal.

The report is impeccable, his work was impeccable, and he lets a sigh escape, a shaky reverberation that tickles his sternum and rasps his throat. Anybody should be happy to have determined that he has indeed done the best anyone could have, but he can't be; he would rather discover that he had made some kind of mistake – because that way, if it happened again, he could prevent it.

He never told anybody, but he hates causality.

His pets seek attention and Phlox rushes to comply their wishes. He is a doctor, but first and foremost, he is a caretaker.

And one death is enough for today.

Feeding the different animals makes him relax. Vulcans have meditation, he has this.

When he has finished, he opens one of the cabinets and takes out a middle sized box. It is white and seems very used. On its lid is adhesive tape with an inscription.

_Commander Tucker_.

Phlox opens the box and does a thorough inventory of every object he placed here for Trip, the result of his "bad luck" (or recklessness) during away missions.

Bandages, of course. Band-aids. Iodine. Various hypo-sprays. Calamine, because even bushes hated him. A "special" thermometer that calibrated to add extra degrees to his temperature, to convince him he had to rest. T'Pol's _Recommendations for How to Convince Trip to Rest_. A book with sudokus for when the treatment was too long for him. The DNA tests of Lorian and Elizabeth. And a pacifier.

He carefully regards each item as he takes it out. Then he closes the box and peels off the tape.

* * *

**2. Archer**

He rubs his hands under the water stream, trying desperately to clean the blood.

He tries not to think of what has just happened. It runs through his head like a mantra: _'He'snotdead,he'snotdead,he'snotdead…'_

But he is, of course. Trip is dead.

He wonders how he has ended up here, washing the blood of his best friend out of his hands, and the only thing that comes to his mind is his first adventure with Trip. It had been in Florida, on a hot, sunny day in June. He'd wanted to go scuba-diving, but he honestly feared he'd gotten himself onto the tiniest boat with the most irresponsible instructor ever. At least until he, overconfident of his ability, had made a fatal mistake and only Trip's speed and professionalism had saved his skin. Trip hadn't told him off, he hadn't even frowned, he'd just burst out in laughter because Archer had gotten a starfish stuck to his head.

They'd talked for hours after that, sitting on the small gunwale. Trip had been very young and insecure in those days, and he wasn't sure he would ever make it into space. He had listened to Archer, in apparent awe, while he talked about his father and the warp project and all his father's dreams.

Then Trip had asked him about his own dreams.

Archer had taken the starfish—it was already dry—and raised it to the blue, blue sky and told him, "I want to catch the stars."

And the brilliant engineer had smiled and winked playfully and promised him, "We'll catch them."

Years passed and difficulties seemed to pile up, but it didn't matter, because there was always that starfish against the blue sky and Trip's smile and his wink and his promise: "We'll catch them."

And one day, their ship was finished and they could, at last, travel through the galaxy. It wasn't as exhilarating, as fun as he had supposed. On the contrary, it became dangerous and gloomy and almost discouraging. But he dragged Trip along with him over the memory of the starfish against the blue sky and Trip's smile and his wink and his promise.

Mission after mission turned him into a bitter man and detached him from the crew and especially Trip, until the distance between them became almost physical, like a deep precipice, and sometimes they seemed strangers. But even then he still took Trip's presence for granted, because he had the starfish against the blue sky and Trip's smile and his wink and his promise.

His wink and his promise. That's what he remembers, that's what he will always remember. But from this day on, there won't be a starfish or a blue sky, just the alarms and the burns and the gasps and the blood and among them Trip's smile and his wink and…

He yells and punches the mirror in front of him. A sharp pain erases the memory. At least for a second. Then there is the crude reality of his own loneliness.

He moves his hand away from the mirror. Several splinters are stuck in his flesh. He takes them out one by one. The fleeting sting every of them produces is almost comforting. A trickle of blood goes from his knuckles down his fingers. His own blood over Trip's.

He raises his head. The shattered mirror reflects a myriad of stares.

All of them are accusing him.

* * *

**3. Malcolm**

He gets out of the turbo-lift, runs along the corridor feeling his heart pounding in his throat, he takes one curve to the left, other to the right…

And there is the hole.

He looks at his watch. Two minutes and 58 seconds. Two seconds less than it took them to reach it when the real thing happened. But still too late. It should be _an_ _entire minute_ earlier to prevent the explosion, to prevent the hole, to prevent the rubble, and behind it…

He returns to the Bridge. Once more, he recreates the incident. _Intruder alarm, jump for the turbo-lift. Go down. Exit the turbo-lift. Run along the corridor as fast as you can. Curve to the left, curve to the right…_

And there is the hole.

He looks at his watch. Two minutes and 58 seconds.

He wheezes and spits at the deck. He didn't lose time. He was as fast as he could. But the hole was still there. And each time he sees it, he can only remember the bloody bust, the arm turned in an unnatural position and the bruised face. The coughs and the gobs of blood. There was so much blood. Too much.

He returns to the Bridge and repeats all the process again. _Intruder alarm, jump for the turbo-lift and push the button while you're entering. Go down. Exit the turbo-lift. Run along the corridor faster than you ever did. Take the left curve as tight as you can, use the impulse to take the curve to the right…_

And there is the hole.

He looks at the watch. Two minutes and 55 seconds.

He falls to the ground. His lungs hurt, his throat rasps and his head throbs. The shirt under the coverall is soaked by sweat. The bad news is that the exhaustion doesn't stop his mind from working. He still sees the injured Trip. But he doesn't want to remember him like that. He wants to picture him as the smiling man inside Shuttlepod One, the best pal who covered for him on Risa, the Everyman Trip, the trusted and trusting comrade who worked with him in the Romulan Drone, the silly Trip who could get totally drunk or be completely in love with an aloof Vulcan and still maintain his integrity.

He wants to remember the real person, not rubble covered in blood.

He goes back to the Bridge, although his thighs suffer spasms because the effort. _OK, once more. Alarm, turbo-lift, corridor, left turn, right turn…_

And there is the hole.

* * *

**4****. Hoshi**

There are too many different words for death. Too many nouns, too many verbs, too many expressions.

All of them try to convey the terrible fact of the loss, of the grief, of the emptiness.

"Corpse" is called "cadaver" in Spanish, which in Latin means "to fall" or "the one who has fallen down." _Defunct_ comes from the Latin expression _defunctus terra_, "to set free from Earth or the soil." _Sarcophagus_ comes from Greek and it's a mixture of the terms for "meat" and "to eat," because they thought they were _ghouls_.

Strange, what people think about death.

The most horrible thing for an ancient Egyptian was for his body to be abandoned in the desert. Australian aborigines can't say the names of the people that have passed away. Hindus believe that the North is the direction of death and they place the heads of the bodies pointing that way. The Buddhists believe in the _Antarabhava_,an intermediate period between death and rebirth which will influence the form that the rebirth shall take. When her grandfather was dying, nobody could talk about the funeral and when he expired her parents forbid her to say "four" during the wake because it sounded too much like "death."

That's another thing: all the euphemisms that exist to name death. Meeting one's end; passing away; ceasing to breathe; taking one's last sleep; passing in one's chips; joining the greater number; kicking the bucket; buying the farm; pushing up daisies…

She has always believed that using expressions to avoid saying "death" is stupid. She believes that the precise word is the most beautiful thing in this world.

If she wanted to say the most accurate way to convey everything death means, it would have to include the padd in her hands. A report for Engineering. And its addressee: Commander Tucker. And the empty desk in front of her, with an abandoned mug with the legend "Best Chief" sitting there.

She tries to find a right term to express everything she sees in one, perfect word.

She fails.

* * *

**5****. Travis**

The universe is big and exciting and mysterious and he loves it.

He has always loved it: the unpredictability, the continuous surprises, the eternal amazement. Even in the middle of a battle, even after the Xindi or the Romulans, he always looked at the screen in front of his helmsman's post eager to see the stars.

He knows the stars. They are like his family, old acquaintances that he visits from time to time, just to know how they are doing.

"You are a breathing poem," Trip told him when they were on their first Minshara class planet, just before everything went crazy. "Poets _write_ about the stars, but you actually _walk_ among them."

The universe is still big and exciting and mysterious and he suddenly hates it.

* * *

**6****. T'Pol**

She has never cried. Except for the short slip when she was using (abusing) trellium, she never cries.

Vulcans never cry.

She didn't cry when her father died. She didn't cry when she realized Jossen was unarmed. She didn't cry when Tolaris raped her. She didn't cry when she found out she suffered the Pa'nar Syndrome. She didn't cry when or after Silik tortured her. She didn't cry when Trip _was crying_ for his sister in front of her. She didn't cry after her marriage ceremony, when she saw Trip leaving. She didn't cry when her mother died. She didn't cry while they wrapped her corpse up with some filthy rags they found and they buried her as well as they could (although, frankly, she doesn't remember much of those hours). She didn't cry when Phlox confirmed she was cured from the Pa'nar syndrome. She didn't cry when Trip left for _Columbia_. She didn't cry when he came back. She didn't cry when baby Elizabeth died. She didn't cry at her funeral, when Trip was pouring his heart out, clutching her between his shaking arms. She didn't cry when he told her it wasn't working. She didn't cry when he told her they had to break up. She didn't cry when she saw him the next morning. She didn't cry for the rest of the time that they kept working together.

She didn't cry for the entire five years. 60 months. 1826 days. 43824 hours. 2629440 minutes. She didn't cry when Archer informed her about Trip's death. She didn't cry when she saw his corpse.

She never cried.

Archer pats her shoulder, a little clumsily, as if he isn't very sure of what he is doing. He says he has to go away, something about last-minute preparations for the funeral. He is slouched like an old man. For the first time, he seems as if he carries the entire universe on his back. When he leaves the cabin T'Pol can still sniff his faint smell of salt, whisky and medicines.

She gets up from the bunk bed to continue packing Trip's belongings. When she does so, she involuntarily knocks over the Frankenstein figure. It crashes against the floor with an unpleasant sound. She kneels down and takes the pieces. The figure is whole, except for the right arm, detached. She stares at the two parts, not trying to fix them, not leaving them either. Her hands shake. Her sight blurs.

Something warm and wet goes down her cheek.

Surprised, she touches her face.

She is crying.


End file.
